When Mars and Venus Collide
by Moon Called
Summary: What happened between that intense look in the mirror and the scene in the Bus Terminal in Bourne Ultimatum? This is my take on the Jason Bourne-David Webb and Nicky Parsons relationship, prior to Bourne's amnesia and beyond the end of Bourne Ultimatum.
1. Impact

**Credits and Disclaimer:** All characters associated with _The Bourne Identity_, _The Bourne Supremacy_, and _The Bourne Ultimatum_ belong to Universal Pictures, Doug Lyman, Paul Greengrass, and the Ludlum Estate. The use of these characters is for fun, not profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. No harm is intended.

**Caveat: **This story was not Beta'ed, all mistakes are mine. This story is dedicated to Frust-Sheep for her encouragement of my 'pregnant Nicky' plot bunny. :)

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Chapter 1: Impact

"We should go."

Staring at him staring at her in the mirror—their eyes locked, silently communicating what neither of them could say—Nicky knew she would never see him again. She could read his intent, his determination. The realization brought tears to her eyes. And although she was raw with need and regret, she tried; she really did try to swallow her tears. Jason was strung as tight as a violin and she didn't want to pluck his guilt. He didn't remember anything of her … of them … prior to his amnesia, so he couldn't know how much he'd shattered her in the café.

Later in the car he'd asked her about it, about what had been between them. She'd just looked out the passenger side window without responding. How could she tell a grieving, emotionally scarred man with no memory of her that they had once shared an incredible night together, or describe how she'd made him moan her name as he'd made her scream his? How could that one night ever compare with the love Jason had so obviously felt for Marie?

The thought of Jason and Marie together, and his tragic loss of her, was too much for Nicky. Tears flowed down her cheeks despite her efforts to quell them. She watched as his eyes tracked the glistening trails on her face and then returned again to her bright umber eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized the clinical signs of shock and knew she was experiencing a delayed reaction from the encounter with Desh. Her mind was finally dealing with just how close she'd come to death. Any semblance of her impeccable, professional mask had crumbled and flaked away, leaving behind this fragile creature in the mirror with large, luminous eyes.

His mask had slipped as well. He either didn't know or didn't care that she could read his emotions—his need, his concern for her. She knew if she broke eye contact with him in the mirror, if she turned to face him, both of their stoic façades would slip back into place. But they were, both of them, caught in the looking glass much as Alice had been before tumbling down the dark hole.

Her breathing hitched as he pushed the door open and walked into the bathroom. The air was suddenly charged with electromagnetic energy. He stopped a foot away from her; his brow furled in concentration and his mouth set in a grim line as he studied her through narrowed eyes. She saw his nostrils flare and knew he was scenting her, trying to assess her physical state.

Treadstone agents, apart from having phenomenal intelligence, had all been excellent at sensory assessments in the field. It was, perhaps, a legacy of their prior Black Ops training. None of them had held a rank less than Captain in their former lives. All of them had been exceptional leaders. All of them had been decidedly strong alpha males in assessing the needs and welfare of their team, knowing one weak link could lead to failure and loss of life. She knew that somewhere between Madrid and Tangier, Jason Bourne had assumed responsibility for her. He had adopted her as a team member, as a pack mate.

He was suddenly so close behind her, she could feel his urgent need through the fabric of their clothes. His hard length burned the shallow valley between her buttocks as he moved impossibly closer to her. She relaxed her weight back against his solid strength. If the logical part of her brain hadn't been numb, she might have blushed at the way her hips moved against his groin seemingly of their own accord, teasing him. He captured her hips with trembling hands, stilling her movement, breathing hard. His eyes, stern and uncompromising, let her know this was strictly field medicine and nothing more.

A part of her was pissed, but the other part understood his reasoning. He couldn't allow himself to become emotionally invested, but he couldn't send her off into the fray in her present condition either. As she watched his cold sapphire eyes deepen into azure pools of molten heat, she realized this was field medicine for him as well. His eyes narrowed urgently, asking a question. How could she refuse him? She was so consumed with need she could barely breathe.

"Yes."

All restraint left him. He moaned deep in his chest as he pulled her back against his body. His hands moved up her stomach and cupped her breasts through her silk undershirt and bra. He fumbled with the zipper in her jeans and then shoved the rough material and her underwear down below her hips, letting gravity complete the action. His eyes closed briefly as he thrust inside her tight, moist sheath. The electric heat of his touch ignited her, molding them into one being. The sex, fueled by adrenaline and need, was fast and rough.

Nicky collapsed against the sink, gulping air in through her mouth. The tight, painful knot of need in her was finally sated. She sensed the same release in him, as his urgent touch became a light caress along her skin. He leaned over her and turned her head until he could reach her lips with his. He claimed her mouth with a deep, wet kiss and then moved his jaw along her cheek until his mouth was next to her ear.

"Sweet Nicole," he whispered.

She froze in place for a moment and then pushed against his warm weight, lifting until she met his lust-kissed eyes in the mirror. She stared at him, searching for some sign of recognition. But the look he returned was puzzled—concerned. He didn't realize what he'd said. He didn't remember Paris.

She broke eye contact and then turned and touched his face with her fingertips. She wasn't surprised when he pulled away from her touch and adjusted his clothes. As she watched, his profession mask slipped back into place.

"We really should go," he said, checking his watch. "We gained a 12 hour window when you coded in for Desh and we're now down to 10. He'd be expected to destroy his cell phone after coding in, so they won't attempt to reach him. Vosen will probably send somebody in from another city to verify the kill."

He paused and stared at her, his eyes steadfast on hers, not straying to encompass her half-naked state. "Nicky ... are you listening to me?"

"Yeah."

"You've got 5 minutes," he said. And then he turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

* * *

Ten minutes later Nicky found herself being led through the back streets of Tangier. The shops, vendors, and haggling customers were a blur in her peripheral vision. Bourne seemed to have a destination in mind, so she wasn't surprised when they entered a cyber café just before dusk. He steered her to a small table in a corner with two computers and handed her one of his credit cards and a slip of paper with a billing address.

"It's clean. It's drawn directly from a secured bank account in Hamburg, Germany. The billing address is a post office box belonging to the bank. Book a flight from Rabat to Lisbon. From there you should be able to fly anywhere. If you have a location or starting point in mind book it now, but from a different computer." He handed her another card. "And use this one."

She clicked into the Delta web-page and booked her flight to Lisbon, then moved to another computer and booked a second flight/vacation package. She printed out her tickets and handed the cards back to him just as he finished printing out his own ticket. She knew better than to ask about his plans.

It was well after dark when they reached the bus terminal. Bourne bypassed the ticket counter and moved instead to the third row of baggage lockers on the left side of the building. He motioned for her purse and sat it in the open locker, checking her passports and credit cards. Nicky wasn't technically a field agent, but all agents stationed abroad were trained as one. She'd left her field box behind in Madrid with her weapon, but she carried her own passport, an alias, and $15,000 with her at all times.

Instinct had urged her to secretly create a third alias after Berlin. If Treadstone had become anathema to the Agency, someone might eventually decide her existence was a risk they couldn't afford. She pulled one of the passports from his hand.

"This one is new," she said, as she handed it back to him. "I created it last month." She watched as he scrutinized the Canadian passport, and the Canadian driver's license inside, looking for mistakes.

"Good work." He handed the items back to her. "They'll monitor your credit card use, so we'll get rid of these as well," he said, removing all four cards from her wallet. "They'll probably assume you're traveling with me, not alone. That should work to your advantage for a while."

He pulled out her small digital camera and checked the prints, noting the photo she'd used for her new passport and license. He also pulled out three blank passport shells with official seals attached for Germany, The Netherlands, and France. She couldn't help the surge of pride she felt from the look of admiration he shot her. It took a lot to impress Jason Bourne.

He returned her purse and then opened the black bag in his locker. He put her passports and credit cards inside and then pulled out six bundles of bills and handed them to her. Her mouth dropped open. The bundles were one-hundred dollar bills.

"This is sixty-thousand dollars. Jason, I can't accept this."

He simply stared at her until she put the money in her purse. He stuffed another bundle into his jacket pocket and closed the locker. Nicky wondered briefly how many lockers like this one he had scattered around the world before he took her elbow and steered her over to the ticket counter. She didn't believe it was mere luck when the agent informed them the bus to Rabat was boarding and said they should hurry.

When they reached the passenger-loading zone she turned and faced him. He seemed to look at everything but her, and then he seemed incapable of looking at anything _but_ her, drinking in her face with eyes grown dark with emotion. Nicky read it all: regret, sadness, pity, concern, and resolve. It was too overwhelming, so she simply turned and walked away.

"It gets easier," he said.

She looked back at him and then boarded the bus, knowing she'd never see him again.

But she'd been wrong.

Five days later, Nicky was sitting in a tourist bar in Sao Luis, Brazil reading a copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_ when a CNN broadcast caught her attention. Heads might roll over a secret assassin program called Blackbriar, that sources say was allegedly headed by CIA Deputy Director Noah Vosen and sanctioned by CIA Director Ezra Kramer. She recognized the man identified as Dr. Albert Hirsch as the mystery man in the photo Jason showed her in the cafe. She wondered briefly if Pamela Landy had survived the fallout, and then she went back to her book.

Her attention was caught again when the broadcaster identified the man allegedly instrumental in disclosing the Blackbriar information as one David Webb, also known as Jason Bourne. Nicky stared at his photo, rolling his real name around in her mind and savoring the taste. But her heart skipped a beat as the announcer went on to say David Webb had been shot and had fallen 10 stories into the East River. She breathed again when he reported that after three days of searching the river, David Webb's body still hadn't been found.

She smiled. Jason … David … was alive.

Nicky left the bar with new purpose. The first thing she'd done upon arriving in Sao Luis the day before was purchase a new laptop and graphics software so that she could alter the photo on her new identifications. She'd increased her age by 6 years and hoped the black eyeliner around her eyes, muted lip color, and minimum makeup made her look a bit older.

At 5 o'clock she boarded a 70-ton luxury liner with a group of international tourists for a one-month cruise around the South American coast. Her Canadian passport, driver's license and birth certificate had passed inspection at the pre-boarding immigration station. She handed the Purser her boarding pass, along with the ticket she'd purchased on-line in Tangier, and was welcomed aboard the _Sea Nymph_.

Her destination was the third to last port of call--Montevideo, Uruguay.

* * *

Nicky read the instructions written in Spanish on the back of the box again, focusing on the lines that read _"If the stick turns blue, the results are positive. If the stick turns pink, the results are negative."_ Her hands trembled as she performed the necessary steps meticulously and then flushed the toilet. Per the instructions, she placed the stick flat on the lip of the sink with the 'results' window face up. She looked at her watch and sat on the edge of the tub. Her hips barely touched the surface before she sprang up and rushed from the bathroom into the kitchen, where she wet the dishtowel and wiped the clean counter, sink, and cabinets. She checked her watch again and moved into the small living room, where she straightened the neat stack of magazines and readjusted the figurine in the center of the oval coffee table. She checked her watch again and moved through the open patio doors onto the balcony, griping the railing hard to keep her hands still.

A breeze from the bay moved through her hair as morning sunlight danced upon the water. Three stories below her, children laughed and played in the streets. Voices lifted up to her from a small knot of tourists, lost in the winding cobbled lanes of Ciudad Viejo, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Montevideo. But none of it touched her. She was cocooned in a cone of silence, the eye of an emotional storm, and the second hand of her watch signaled the impending gale. She had 2 minutes … 1 minute … 59 … 58 … 57 seconds to wait. She took another deep breath and pushed away from the railing and walked slowly back into the bathroom. The strip in the 'results' window was blue … positive.

Nicky opened a different pregnancy kit, checked the expiration date, and repeated the test. The results were 'yes' for pregnant. She opened the last kit and repeated the test. Her urine in the small cup containing the stick turned blue. She walked into the living room and sat in the corner of the couch with her legs folded beneath her, fighting anxiety, willing herself to remain calm, to think logically. Just then a whiff of cigar smoke from her downstairs neighbor floated through the open patio doors, and the nausea she had battled off and on all week surged forth.

She rushed into the bathroom, threw up her tea and toast, and dry-heaved until the involuntary spasms ceased. She hugged the porcelain bowl for a few moments and then climbed to her feet and leaned over the sink. She swished water around in her mouth several times and then splashed water on her face, neck, and chest. The cool water felt good against her flushed skin. She dragged her left hand back through her short dark hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could almost imagine a pair of deep sapphire eyes staring back at her, lids heavy and lust-kissed.

_"That isn't helping, Nicky!"_ She chastised herself. _"Focus!"_

When had she last had her period? In Madrid … she'd last had her period while stationed in Madrid. But how long was that before she'd left Madrid for Tangier? Two weeks? Three weeks? It had to be Tangier. It had been nearly a year since she'd had sex with anyone before Tangier, and she hadn't had sex with anyone since Tangier. She'd been in Montevideo, Uruguay for about six weeks now, which meant she was at least two and a half months pregnant.

Nicky sat on the couch with her head in her hands. She'd go into town tomorrow and see a doctor to confirm it. But then what? How could she possibly run now that she was pregnant? She'd have to take care of herself; eat right, take special vitamins, and get enough sleep. Sleep would be an issue. Every strange noise in the night forced her to grab the small hand gun she'd purchased in Sao Luis and sit up until dawn with the lights on.

She stretched out on the couch and considered her options. She struck the most practical option from her list and moved on. She could contact Landy and test the waters, find out exactly how dire the case was against her. Perhaps in light of the whole Blackbriar revelation the standing kill order against her had been rescinded. The last option on her list, contacting Jason ... David ... was out of her control. She wouldn't know where to look for him, and wasn't too sure she wanted to. He didn't remember Paris and he was still grieving for Marie. He had moved on, and she needed to do the same. She'd find a way ... she had to.


	2. Jupiter Rising

**Notes:** **(1)** I've tried to capture the Tom Cronin character from _The Bourne Supremacy_. **(2)** A parillia is a South American restaurant with a grill as the main focus for cooking meat. They are very popular in Uruguay. **(3)** MSG stands for Marine Security Guard. **(4)** I'm using planets to represent the characters: Jason Bourne/David Webb is represented by Mars; Nicky Parsons is represented by Venus; Tom Cronin is represented by Jupiter; and Pamela Landy is represented by Saturn. **(5)** I was going to call part 2 something else, but I changed my mind at the last minute. :) **(6)** From this point forward in the story, except for the flashback to that incredible night in Paris, Jason Bourne will be called David Webb (that's how they left it at the end of _Bourne Ultimatum_).

**Credits and Disclaimer:** All characters associated with _The Bourne Identity_, _The Bourne Supremacy_, and _The Bourne Ultimatum_ belong to Universal Pictures, Doug Lyman, Paul Greengrass, and the Ludlum Estate. The use of these characters is for fun, not profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. No harm is intended.

**Caveat: **This story was not Beta'ed, all mistakes are mine. This story is dedicated to Frust-Sheep for her encouragement of my 'pregnant Nicky' plot bunny. :)

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Part 2: Jupiter Rising

"Adam, you're such a child, you know that?"

"Hey, back off, G.I. Joe! I'm almost 18-years-old and I'm only three years younger than you!" The teenager performed a series of fake kung fu moves in front of his older brother. "So who's calling _who_ a child?"

"Give her the hat!"

Adam paused. "Man, what's up with you, Bryan?" He passed the hat from hand to hand, keeping it just out of his sister's reach. "You log in a couple of years with the Marines and all of a sudden you're ... _Dad_."

Tom Cronin opened the door to the restaurant and turned his head to look at his son. The dark sunglasses he wore made his ominous stare all the more impressive.

The boy shuffled his feet back and forth and gave his father a sheepish look. "Not that there's anything wrong with _being_ Dad." He handed his sister her white sunhat and patted her on the head.

"Twerp!" her twin sister said. Both girls rolled their eyes and huffed inside the Don Peperone parilla behind their mother and oldest brother.

Tom stared at his son. "Your mother's already grounded you for two weeks when we get home. You want me to make it a month?"

"No, sir."

"Somebody's in trouble," the youngest son, Samuel, said in a singsong voice as he followed his father inside.

"Bite me, you little geek," Adam said before the door closed. He started to follow, but a man suddenly bumped into him hard enough to twirl him around. "Hey!" He looked behind him, but the man had already turned the corner.

"What's wrong, honey?" his mother asked, frowning as he stormed inside the parilla.

"Some assh--!"

"Adam!" Tom snapped in his Marine voice.

"-- _guy_ just bumped into me and almost knocked me down!"

"Ohhh, did a bad man bump into the poor baby?" one of his sisters teased, using baby talk.

Adam scowled.

The twins giggled and took out their cell phones to check for text messages.

"No cell phones while we're eating, girls," Emma Cronin said as a waiter led them to their table.

"Yeah, no cell phones while we're eating, girls, " Samuel echoed, wagging a finger.

"Shut up you little creep!"

"No, _you_ shut up!"

"I'd like both of you to shut up, right now!" Their mother snapped. "What's gotten into you kids?"

Tom shook his head and rubbed his chin. He understood why the kids were antsy. Children tended to act out when something was off with one or both of their parents. After three months of forced administrative leave, he was on edge … not dangerously so, but still far enough from his usual mode for his children to notice and become concerned.

His wife had tiptoed around him until the day he'd picked an argument with her over some trivial matter. She'd tried to hold on to her temper while he'd ranted and raved about the difference between cuddling and coddling. He was an ex-Marine, he'd said; he didn't _do_ coddling. That had really set her off.

He smiled and bit his lip as he remembered the make-up sex afterwards. While cuddling in bed that night they'd decided the whole family needed a tension breaker—some kind of distraction. So he'd suggested a two-week vacation to visit their oldest son Bryan, a Marine stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Montevideo, Uruguay.

"What're you smiling about?" His wife asked him, interrupting his thoughts. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye as she sipped a local herbal drink called Mate from a gourd with a metal straw.

Tom's cell phone rang before he could respond. "Pam? No, it's okay. What's up?" He waved at his family for quiet. "Uh-huh … uh-huh … uh-huh … I agree, it could've been a lot worse. I can be there in four days, no problem." He put his hand over the receiver to cover his wife's groan. "Yeah … all right, see you then." He closed his phone and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Well, start brushing up on your German," he told his family. "I'm being re-assigned to the American Consulate in Salzburg, Austria."

Sabrina crossed her arms over her chest. "What, like Heidi in the Alps? No. Way."

"Boys in Lederhosen? I don't think so," Samantha added.

"Why couldn't we move some place cool like Copenhagen?" Sabrina looked at her sister. "Wouldn't it be cool to date a Viking?"

"We might even meet a prince, like in that movie," Samantha sighed.

"Totally," Sabrina agreed, equally enraptured.

Tom leaned his elbows on the table and stared at his daughters. "Vikings?" He said, his voice stern. "You're 15-years-old. The only 'Vikings' you two had better be interested in are the ones you read about in your textbooks, and the football team in Minnesota."

The girls, properly chastised, became extremely interested in their soft drinks.

Emma Cronin leaned over and hugged her husband. "I knew they weren't stupid enough to get rid of you and Pam," she whispered.

"Yeah? Well, there's a lot of 'stupid' going around Virginia these days." He pulled back so he could see his wife's face. "A Diplomatic Pouch is on the way with my new orders."

"What, here? Honey, we're leaving tomorrow. Can't this wait until we get home?"

He shook his head. "They're sending a plane for me in three days. I need to meet with my counterpart in Salzburg and Pam wants me on site when our team arrives. Leaving their families behind to handle the re-location is gonna be rough. Finding a familiar face and a place to set their laptop will mean a lot."

"And what about your family and _our_ re-location?" Tom could see the wheels turning as she began compiling a mental 'to do' list. "Maybe we should just put everything in storage and rent our house out. We have an awful lot of equity built into—" A ringing cell phone distracted her.

"Kids, I said no cell phones."

The Cronin children checked to make sure their phones were off and then looked at Adam, who looked around the table in surprise. His silent cell phone sat next to his plate, but the persistent ringing came from him. He reached into a deep pocket on the side of his tan painter's pants and pulled out a strange cell phone. After receiving a nod from his father, he pressed the 'Talk' button.

"Hello?" He said warily. His face became even more puzzled as he looked over at his father and handed him the phone. "Dad, it's for you."

Tom got up from the table and walked outside with the cell phone. He knew it was a foolish move, but if this was an attempt by someone to take him out, he'd rather not be around his family when it happened.

"Tom Cronin."

"Nice family," the caller said.

His heart skipped a beat as he turned a slow circle, looking around the shopping center for the man on the phone.

"Do you know who this is?"

"Yes."

"The east corner of Julio Avenue next to Plaza Independencia. 5 pm. Bring the cell phone with you." The line went dead.

He didn't have to tell Tom to come alone and unarmed. The casual mention of his family had been more than enough to ensure his compliance.

* * *

Tom felt completely and utterly exposed standing on the street corner. People usually worked until 7 or 8 in the evening in Montevideo, so the late afternoon car and pedestrian traffic was light. He glanced at his watch and discovered he'd been standing there for an hour. He checked the sight-lines from where he stood and determined that he presented a clean kill from at least ten different locations. It was a very sobering and uncomfortable thought.

He'd convinced his wife all was well and had simply explained away the appearance of the cell phone as 'business.' Emma had become used to such cryptic explanations over the years, but Bryan hadn't been entirely convinced. If Bryan hadn't been scheduled to work a 4 to Midnight shift at the Embassy, Tom thought his son might have followed him.

The cell phone rang.

"There's a small park across from the Palacio Salvo about five blocks east of where you're standing. The central path leads to a double row of benches facing a fountain in the middle of the park."

Tom did as instructed.

He sat with his arms stretched on both sides along the back of the bench and enjoyed the dappled sunlight on his face. He allowed the splashing water in the fountain to lull and sooth him, resisting the urge to anticipate contact. He knew he was under surveillance. He'd dealt with Spooks before. That's what they'd called them while he'd been active in the Marine Corps—Spooks; Army Rangers mostly, solitary men with distant eyes and vacant faces who would suddenly appear beside you in the chow line after extended sniper ops, and then disappear like ghosts. A few of the Spooks had been Green Berets, like Captain David Webb.

A sudden movement of air disturbed the birds behind him.

"Pam never doubted you'd survived that fall."

There was a moment of silence. "I almost didn't."

"What do you want?"

"Why are you Montevideo?"

"Come on, David, you know I'm here with my family. You tailed us to the parilla." The other man stepped over the back of the bench and sat down beside him.

"I know your son is part of the MSG detail at the Embassy, and I know the CIA is notorious for using family events and special occasions as cover for covert ops."

"I didn't know you were here."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

Tom closed his eyes and sighed. He began to wonder if he'd survive this encounter. The most dangerous thing in the world was a predator protecting its young … or its mate.

"I didn't know Nicky was here either. But it wouldn't have mattered one way or the other. The standing kill order issued for you two has been rescinded. All is not forgiven, but no one's looking. Not with the current Blackbriar scandal being discussed and analyzed on cable news shows 24/7."

"How did that happen?"

"If you've been following the news, you know that Marty Marshall was brought back as Interim CIA Director after Kramer's forced retirement three months ago. His first order of business was to halt all black on black orders initiated by Vosen or Kramer until they could be properly evaluated. Kramer fired Pam and I after she testified before the Senate Judicial Committee. Marshal countermanded that directive. He had us reinstated and then put us out on Administrative Leave with pay."

"Not really that much better, is it? You guys are still wondering which way the blade will fall."

"Right." Tom sighed and rubbed his face. "But the suspense is finally over. Pam called just before you did this afternoon. We're being re-assigned to the U.S. Consulate in Salzburg, Austria."

Webb turned his body so he was facing Tom. He put his left arm along the back of the bench. "The doghouse?"

Tom nodded. "The doghouse. Like I said before … all is not forgiven. Marty may like and respect Pam, and he might privately agree with what she did, but the CIA is still very much an all boys club. He had to slap her on the wrist in a manner that would appease the Hawks and please the Doves. At least this way she'll be able to do her job without constant scrutiny."

"And?"

Tom smiled. He'd forgotten how quick Webb was. "And, she's trying to negotiate a deal for you and Nicky. Marty knew about Treadstone and he knew it was a black on black program. But he didn't know about the training methods involved … what was done to you, and the others. Marty is a former Marine. He lives the code."

"I won't come back, Tom. I'm no longer Jason Bourne."

"Pam knows that, David. She has something else in mind." He turned on the bench and looked at the other man. "If you come back into the fold, you won't have to run anymore. You and Nicky could live your lives without constantly looking over your shoulders. At least talk to her about it, see how she feels."

David looked puzzled for a moment, then his eyes widened in comprehension. "I've only been here a week. I'm not running with Nicky, I haven't even spoken to her. I just nee—wanted to check on her. Make sure she's all right."

"Okay."

Webb looked at Tom's Marine insignia ring, he looked into Tom's eyes, searching, and finally he said, "I need your help. Something's wrong."

"Wrong? What do you mean?"

"I'm worried about her. She doesn't look well. She has dark circles under her eyes and she's lost some weight. I followed her home from work one day and she threw up on the sidewalk after passing by a seafood restaurant. The next day I followed her to a doctor's office and then to a pharmacy."

"Nicky's been on the run for three months. Bouts of nerves and sleepless nights are to be expected, right?"

David nodded. "Something still feels off. I can't leave until I know she's all right."

"Well, why haven't you talked to her then?"

"I can't. I won't risk it … I won't risk her."

"I see," Tom said with dawning realization. It occurred to him that David cared for Nicky, and felt guilty about his feelings. He'd sent her away, to run on her own, so he wouldn't put her life at further risk—like he had with Marie. He was probably still racked with guilt over Marie's death as well. How long had it been? Less than five months?

"David," he said in a gentle voice. "Marie's death wasn't your fault. And despite your misgivings, Nicky probably has a better chance of survival with you than without you. Why don't you go talk to her."

"I can't. Would you please go talk to her … make sure she's all right? If she needs anything—money, whatever—just let me know."

"What if she needs to see you?"

There was a long pause. "Anything except that."

Tom signed in resignation. "All right, I'll check on her."

"Thank you. She works in a small bookstore about four blocks down on the Plaza. Be careful, she probably has a gun."

Tom rubbed his chin and looked at the fountain. Not for the first time, he wondered what had happened between Nicky and Jason Bourne in Paris. Pam was convinced they'd had an affair, that Nicky had a thing for bad boys. He thought it might have been more complicated than that. She couldn't have been more than 22-years-old when she was assigned as Bourne's personal contact and handler.

"You know," he said. "I keep wondering why Conklin stationed Nicky in Paris at such a young age."

The younger man looked as if he were about to say something, but then he pressed his lips together and studied his clasped hands.

Tom gave David a shrewd look. "What was she … a lure, a threat, or a reward?"

David looked surprised. "How did you know?"

"I didn't much like Conklin, but I understood how his mind worked. We served together during Desert Storm. He may have been an asshole, but he was bright as hell and a damn good officer. Using Nicky as some kind of control element for you fits him. Which one was she?"

"I think she was both a lure and a reward." The younger man got up from the bench and began to pace.

"What was it about her? Why did he choose her over other agents?"

David closed his eyes for a moment. "I remember … I remember watching Conklin interview several female agents from behind a two-way mirror. There was just something about Nicky that attracted me … she was bright, fluent in several languages, like me. She was probably the type of woman I liked before I became Jason Bourne. Someone must have been watching me as I watched her."

Tom hesitated a moment and then asked, "Were you and Nicky involved in a relationship before your amnesia?"

David sat down on the bench and looked at Tom. "I honestly don't remember … but she hinted as much on the drive from Madrid." He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I don't understand why I can remember seeing her before Paris and not remember anything about her in Paris."

Tom thought about that for a moment. "You're trying to protect Nicky now by staying away from her. Maybe your subconscious is trying to do the same thing by blocking a memory from the past that might draw you to her."

A church nearby chimed the hour. It was 7 PM. David sat up. "There! There she is, see? She has short dark hair and she's wearing a blue skirt and white blouse."

"I see her," said Tom as he got up from the bench. "How will I get in touch with you?"

"My cell phone number is programmed in the phone you have."

Tom nodded and walked away.

* * *

He became more and more concerned as he followed Nicky. David had been right … something was definitely wrong with her. She seemed listless and ill, and she walked as if each step drained her last once of energy. She hadn't checked her environment once while he tailed her home, a kiss of death for anyone on the run. If he had been an asset or an over zealous field agent, she'd be dead.

He followed her into an older section of town close to the bay. She paused in front of a three-story yellow stucco building with balconies. When she extracted her keys he walked up quickly behind her. He hated the idea of startling her, but there was simply no other way.

"Hello, Nicky."

She whirled around with a gun in her hand. He'd been expecting it and moved to his right as she turned. He gripped her right wrist with his left hand and raised her arm into the air, wrestling the gun from her before she had a chance to fire. Her eyes were wide and panicked and her breathing was harsh.

"Nicky! Nicky, relax! I'm not going to hurt you. Look at me, Nicky. Tom Cronin, remember? I was with Pamela Landy in Berlin. Remember?" At the mention of Landy's name, she stopped struggling. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"Ho—how did you find me?"

"I didn't. A friend sent me to check up on you. Do you mind if we go inside before we draw attention?" True enough, the group of kids playing with a soccer ball and several old ladies had stopped to look at them.

Nicky led him into the building. "I'm on the third floor front," she said as they began to climb the stairs. "What friend sent you?" she asked suspiciously.

"David Webb." He had expected a reaction to the name, but not the one he got.

She fainted.

Tom gathered her in his arms and picked up her keys, then carried her up to her third floor apartment. He laid her down on the couch and went into the bathroom to get a hand towel. He placed the wet towel on Nicky's forehead and then went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He noticed several prescription bottles and an open book on the kitchen table. On his way back to Nicky he paused and picked up one of the bottles. It had been 13 years since he'd last seen a bottle like it, but he recognized the prescription for a prenatal vitamin. He flipped the book over and read the title _What to Expect When You Are Expecting_.

Tom rubbed his chin with his free hand and then sat next to Nicky on the couch, placing the glass of water on the coffee table next to her gun. He dabbed her face and forehead with the wet towel and called her name softly until her eyes began to flutter.

She sat up with a start and caught the wet towel as it tumbled from her forehead. She recognized him and relaxed a little, but then her eyes narrowed and she glanced over at the gun and then back at him.

"I'm not going to hurt you Nicky. The CIA doesn't know you're here. I'm in Montevideo on vacation with my family. We're visiting my son. He's a Marine guard stationed at the Embassy. You can call and verify that if you don't believe me. His name is Bryan Cronin."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "You said … you said David asked you to check on me?"

"Yes. And I'll tell you what I told him." He handed her the glass of water. "The standing kill order issued on you has been rescinded. No one's looking for you, but that could change over the next month or two. Pam's trying to barter a deal for you and David, and Interim Director Marshall is considering her request."

She stared at him, her eyes clouded with doubt.

"It's the truth," he said with a smile. He glanced around her tidy apartment. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes, why do you ask?"

He looked at her through the eyes of a father and asked as gently as he could, "Nicky, are you pregnant?"

The glass shook in her hand, so he sat it on the coffee table. She looked at the glass and he could see it hit her, that he must have noticed the book and pills when he got the water. He watched as her face crumbled and she began to cry. He gathered her in his arms and held her as she sobbed out all the trauma of the past three months—how close she'd come to death in Tangier. He whispered soothing words and patted her back and held her head against his chest, rocking her as if she were one of his daughters. He listened as she sobbed out her fear for her unborn child, how she was so stressed she didn't think she'd be able to carry the child to full term. Finally she was spent. She was nearly asleep, but he had to ask.

"What about the father?"

Nicky tensed and tried to pull away from him. He looked into her panicked face and something cold and angry gripped him inside. "Did somebody force you?" She bit her lip and shook her head.

A sudden image of David Webb pacing in front of the fountain, and his adamant refusal to see Nicky, came to him. He stood up and rubbed his face and head with his hands, pacing back and forth, and then he came to a stop in front of her with his hands on his hips.

"It's Webb, isn't it? He's the father of your child, isn't he?" She wouldn't look at him. She wrapped her arms around her mid-section and rocked back and forth. "Nicky, how could you let something like this happen? You're a smart girl. How could you possibly do something so stupid and irresponsible after deciding to run from the CIA!"

She burst into tears, and Tom felt like shit. He sat down and gathered her in his arms again. "I'm sorry, Nicky. I'm sorry. I wasn't there … I shouldn't judge you. I learned a long time ago not to second guess anybody in the field." He leaned his head against hers and rocked her a little. "We'll call David and figure—"

"No! No … I don't want him to know!"

"Nicky …"

"No! Promise me, please promise me you won't tell him!"

Tom pulled back so he could look into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Nicky, but I can't make that promise. This isn't just about you and David anymore ... and he has a right to know." He scrutinized the dark circles beneath her eyes and her pallid complexion and asked, "How long has it been since you've gotten a full night of sleep?"

"I—I can't remember."

"You look a little thin. Are you having trouble with nausea?"

"Yeah," she gave him a weak smile. "I just can't seem to think of anything to eat that'll stay down."

"Well, maybe my wife can think of something." He smiled at her and wiped the tears from her face.

"What do you mean?"

He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Gather your things together. You're coming back to the hotel with me so you can get some rest. I'll call my wife and let her know."

* * *

David Webb answered on the third ring. "Yes?"

"A lure and a reward, huh?"

"Tom … what's wrong, did you see Nicky?"

"How do you know you didn't accept Conklin's gift? He put her there for your pleasure and, in a roundabout way, you did hand pick her. Shit, it makes sense to me. In ancient times, elite warriors were often rewarded with women, and Jason Bourne was definitely the best. So how do you know you and Nicky weren't fucking like Rabbits in Paris? Oh, right, I forgot ... _you don't remember anything_, do you?"

"What happened … why are you so angry?"

"You were right, David. Nicky isn't well, she isn't well at all. In fact, I brought her back to our hotel so she could get some rest. I have no doubt you know where we're staying and our room number, so I want you to get your ass over here … _now_!" He barked out the last word in his Marine voice.

"I told you I can—"

"You Know, Pam and I read your sealed military file. You enlisted in the Army when you were 18-years-old. R.O.T.C. through college ... awards, medals, commendations … language skills … near genius level I.Q. You were a captain in command of your own Black Ops squad in the Army Rangers, and then you got accepted into the Green Beret Special Forces. You were good at it, but you were better at it alone. That's probably one of the reasons why Treadstone came courting you."

"Stop! Just stop it and tell me what the fuck you're talking about!"

"How could you allow something so incredibly stupid to happen and then send that girl out there by herself? Jesus, David! They taught you how to kill a man a hundred different ways with a toothpick, but they didn't teach you anything about birth control?"

"I don't know wh—_what??_"


	3. Mars in Retrograde Motion

**Sources Used from the Internet - In the Public Domain**: La Casbah Bar, Dance Club, and Restaurant; 11th Arrondissement; 18-20, rue de la Forge-Royale; Paris 75011. The Fort Bragg Bamberg Army Garrison website. The 75th Army Ranger Regiment Special Operations Community website. A wonderful Special Forces (Green Berets) website.

**Disclaimers**: All characters and images associated with _The Bourne Identity_, _The Bourne Supremacy,_ and _The Bourne Ultimatum_ belong to Universal Pictures, Doug Lyman, Paul Greengrass, and the Ludlum estate. The use of these characters is for fun, not profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. No harm is intended.

The song "Dirrty" from the _Stripped_ CD, RCA: 2002, by Christina Aguilera. Lyrics are used without permission. The use of these lyrics is for fun, not profit.

**Caveat**: This story was not beta'ed, all mistakes are mine (I'll clean them up as I find them). This story is dedicated to Frust-Sheep for her encouragement of my 'pregnant Nicky' plot bunny, and to Robin, for her constant and kind encouragement. :)

**NOTE**: The word retrograde derives from the Latin words _retro_, backwards, and _gradus_, step.

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Chapter 3, Part 1: _Mars in Retrograde Motion_

David pressed the cell phone hard against his ear. "What did you say?" he asked, his voice matching the look of stunned amazement on his face.

"I said _birth control_. You know … it's what smart, responsible people use _before_ engaging in sexual activity at inappropriate times!"

"Nicky's pregnant?" he whispered, wading through the other man's caustic rebuke to the meat of the matter. Somewhat dazed, he sat down hard on the wooden chair at the small desk in his hotel room. "H—How did it happen?"

"How did it—? Oh, I don't know. Maybe the goddamn stork put a diamond under her pillow!"

"No … not what I meant. What I … did Nicky say … I mean … is it …?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You're asking if the baby is yours?"

For one horrible moment, David couldn't answer the question. Breath just wouldn't leave his lungs to fuel the word. He finally croaked out, "Yeah," in a hoarse voice raw with emotion.

"My wife said Nicky is in her thirteenth week. Assuming she hasn't been frequenting cantinas while on the run from the CIA," he said with heavy sarcasm, "you do the math and tell me."

"Thirteen weeks." David closed his eyes and was suddenly standing in Tangier outside a bathroom door, watching Nicky watching him in the mirror. He could see and feel it all again … her large brown eyes—moist, sad pools of longing and regret … her tears as they pulled him into the room like silver cords … the way her tight, velvety sheath gripped him while he was nestled deep inside her.

"Well?" Cronin's sharp, impatient voice brought him back to the present, "Are you the father?"

"Yeah." He answered in a strong voice. Adapting quickly, his mind began to process and analyze the new equation, formulating different scenarios and possible outcomes—none of which included him.

"This isn't a mission, David. Stop working it like one," the other man said. And then he asked, "What are you thinking?"

_Damn, he's good,_ thought David. "I'm thinking it's probably not such a good idea for me to see Nicky right now."

"Yeah, well, she's not particularly anxious to see you, either." Then the temperature of Tom's voice dropped and he asked with steely purpose, "Why is that?"

David sat back in the chair and smiled. The temperature change in the other man's voice and the underlying threat in the question told him two things: Cronin was invested in Nicky's well-being, and he would kick David's ass—or at least try to—if he thought Nicky had been fucked over in any way. He liked the ex-Marine's mettle. His initial instinct to contact the man had come by proxy of Cronin's boss, Pamela Landy, who had earned his explicit trust. Landy, a Counter Intelligence Supervisor and one of four CIA Deputy Directors, was extremely bright and possessed of courage and integrity. He'd gambled on her second in command having similar traits; being someone in whom _she_ could trust explicitly.

He stood and began pacing the length of the room and back. "I didn't force her," he assured the other man.

"Okay." The word was uttered with a joint sigh of relief and approval. "Then I don't—just a second," Tom moved the receiver away from his mouth. There was a muffled female voice in the background. _"Thank God,"_ Tom's distant voice reached his ears. _"She needs it."_ Then he spoke into the receiver. "Nicky was able to keep down some food. She's been having a bit of trouble with morning sickness. I don't know why they call it that. Nausea can hit a pregnant woman at any time. Believe me, I know from experience."

"Tom—"

"My wife said Nicky fell asleep as soon as she finished eating. "

"Tom, I—"

"Pack your things and come on over. My family's leaving early in the morning, so there'll be plenty of room. In fact, why don't you—"

"Wait … just wait a minute!" David closed his eyes and gently leaned his forehead against the nearest wall. "I don't think I'm gonna … this isn't a good idea. She remembers a past with me and I have no idea what it is."

"Then don't talk about the past. Just concentrate on the future."

David pushed away from the wall and paced in frustration, trying to find the words. "She may want … a part of me is still buried with Marie … do you understand?"

There was another long pause on the other end of the phone. "Yeah," Tom said with a sigh. "Yeah, I do. And now I think I understand why Nicky doesn't want to see you. David, you may not know anything about your past with Nicky, but she knows all about your life with Marie."

David closed his eyes and used the heel of his palm to massage a spot on his forehead where a headache was forming. "I'm still in love with Marie. I think about her every day."

"I don't doubt it … but I suspect you also care about Nicky. Beating yourself up with guilt isn't going to help her or your child."

"My child …" he said, his voice filled with bemused wonder. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

Tom's sympathetic chuckle came through the cell phone. "Nicky might be more inclined to see you after a full night's sleep. What passport are you traveling on?"

"Canadian. Robert Nielsen."

"What a coincidence." There was a touch of dry humor in his voice. "Nicky is traveling on a Canadian passport under the name of Anna Nielsen. I told the front desk my niece would be staying with me for a couple of days. I'll call downstairs and tell them her husband will be joining us in the morning. The same last name makes the story more plausible."

"You seem pretty sure I'll show up tomorrow."

"I am. Otherwise, you wouldn't be the man Pam and I believe you to be." The line went dead.

* * *

_The man Pam Landy and Tom Cronin believe him to be._

_He remembered how the promise of that man began ..._

_He was born David James Webb on September 13, 1970 in Nixa, Missouri to Irish Catholic parents—James and Rita Webb. He was the second oldest of five siblings, four boys and one girl. His mother owned and operated a small bakery adjacent to their house; his lasting memory of her was associated with the smell of fresh baked bread. She'd been raised in a Catholic orphanage, and there wasn't a day that passed when she failed to let her children know how much they were loved and valued. His father taught History at one of the local high schools. He had gone to college on the Army G.I. bill after surviving a tour of duty in Vietnam. When David was three years old his parents realized they had, while not quite a budding prodigy, a rather clever and bright child in their midst. They did some research at the public library and bought flash cards and other stimuli recommended at the time for exceptional children. Once David started school his parents and teachers discovered that he had a nearly eidetic memory. When he reached 7th grade and started St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Middle and High School the nuns were delighted with his proficiency in languages. His older sister, Karen, who was also a straight-A student, complained constantly about how she had to study for hours on end to get good grades while all David had to do was read a chapter, listen to a lecture, or watch one of his teachers write an example on the board._

_Despite his academic prowess in school, David managed to avoid the dreaded geek label due in part to his natural athletic abilities, and due in equal part to the fact that the bullies soon learned he had a mean right hook. His father's brother, David, his namesake and a Green Beret, began teaching his nephew the rudimentary art and discipline of boxing when he was ten-years-old, after he'd come home with a bloody nose during one of his uncle's visits. His parents had argued about it. His mother complained about the violent aspect of the lessons, afraid David might get hurt. But his father thought the lessons might give David a sense of confidence and good self-esteem. His pragmatic uncle finally stepped in and said "Rita, the kid's smart as a whip and smaller than the other boys his age. He's gonna get the sh-the snot beat out of him every day if he doesn't learn how to defend himself."_

_David lost his virginity when he was seventeen. The recipient of that gift was his twenty-year-old sister's best friend, Becky—a highly energetic redhead who was also home on spring break from college. Becky stopped by one Saturday afternoon shortly after he got home from a soccer match. He'd just gotten out of the shower when the doorbell rang. Stumbling over the pair of cleats beneath his dirt and grass stained soccer uniform, David quickly pulled on a pair of sweatpants and raced the dog downstairs to answer the door. He was surprised to find Becky on the porch, and even more surprised to hear she'd forgotten that his sister was spending the day up in Springfield with the rest of his family. He got a little flushed with embarrassment when he grew wood from the way she licked her lips and stared at his bare chest. Boxing, track and field, and soccer had given him a wiry body and a chiseled chest. Still, he was afraid Becky would laugh at him or worse, that she'd joke with his sister about her horny little brother. But she just asked to use the restroom as if she didn't notice his prominent erection. David followed her up stairs, intent on dressing and seeing Becky out the door, then spending some much need privacy in his room with his constant companion of late, Rosie Palm (good Catholic boys who dated good Catholic girls often cheated with Rosie, and despite what Father Patrick said, she never grew a beard). He'd pulled a tee shirt halfway over his head when he heard the lock on his bedroom door click into place. Three hours later, he closed and locked the front door behind Becky with a hickey on his chest and a smug grin on his face. He threw his sheets in the washer and then tilted his head back and howled at the ceiling, laughing when the dog joined in. Later he stood in the shower with the water duplicating the warmth he'd felt with Becky, and touched the places Becky's hands and mouth had been in awe._

_Full scholarship offers from Ivy League schools flooded the Webb mailbox for David during his senior year in high school, but he'd decided early on that he wanted a military career like his Uncle David, now a major in the Green Berets. His parents had blanched at his words. His mother was disappointed, because she'd always pictured her bright son as a doctor. His father was concerned, because he knew what his brother actually did in the Army. He took David aside and said "Son, you know your Uncle David is in the Special Forces, but do you really know what that means? Sometimes he has to do things … go to really dangerous places and … and … perhaps even kill people when the Army tells him to. And I'm not just talking about a soldier up in a tree with riflescope a couple hundreds yards away from the enemy. I'm talking about getting close enough to the enemy where you've gotta to use your hands or a knife to take their life. Do you understand that?" David looked his father in the eyes and said "Yeah, Dad … that's what warriors do."_

_After visiting several campuses with his parents, David finally narrowed his choice down to Georgetown University in Washington D.C. He'd made his choice for several reasons. The school attracted a large number of international students with whom he could converse, keeping his language skills fresh. The school offered a Foreign Service degree with a focus in four different areas to choose from; which would be a good foundation for his military career. His parents loved the fact of Georgetown University being one of the oldest Catholic and Jesuit schools in the country, and, in consolation to his mother, the school was as close to Ivy League status as you could get without actually pulling the leafy vine off the brick walls. Besides, the Ivies had all banished the R.O.T.C. programs from their campuses in the early 1970's._

_David joined the Army and completed his Basic Training in 1988 during the summer after his high school graduation. He went straight to his freshman year at Georgetown from Basic and entered the R.O.T.C. program. Having completed two years of college courses at Missouri State University in Springfield, along with his regular course load in high school during his junior and senior year, he was able to achieve an undergraduate degree and a Masters degree within the four-year time frame allotted by the Army. Aside from the Latin he'd taken in Catholic school from the 7th through the 12th grade, by the time he started college he was also fluent in French, German, Italian, and Spanish—so he opted to continue in Germanic language studies with Dutch and to explore the Slavic languages, beginning with Czech and Russian. He graduated from Georgetown University on May 18, 1992 with a Bachelor of Science degree in Foreign Service (focus in International History), a Master's Degree in Applied Linguistics, and the rank of second lieutenant._

_The whole family made the trip to Washington D. C. for his dual graduation, including his sister—who was in her last year of surgical residency at Christ Hospital in St. Louis. She'd brought along her fiancé, Bob. David smiled at the way they touched and looked at each other. But then, they probably looked at him the same way, as he couldn't keep his hands or eyes off of his own girlfriend, Amanda Carter. Everyone was so proud of him. He relished the way his mother looked at him with shiny eyes and raised chin, and how his father kept straightening his uniform, always ending with his fingers gently brushing his gold bars. Uncle David even managed to attend. He said he'd had to pull in a few favors, but once Command learned he wanted to attend his nephew's R.O.T.C. Commissioning Ceremony along with the regular graduation, they'd pulled a few strings as well. So it was that the graduating Army cadets in David's class received their bars and salutes from Major David Patrick Webb of the Army Special Forces, Green Berets. David would never forget the moment his name was called and he walked with crisp strides to stand before his uncle. Nor would he forget the intense look of love and pride in his uncle's eyes as he pinned the bars in placed and then stepped back as his nephew performed and received his first salute as Second Lieutenant David James Webb._

_He'd expressed an interest in the Army Rangers when he enlisted, and the Army wasted no time in throwing him into pre-Ranger training. He received his orders to report to Fort Benning, Georgia the day after graduation. He was scheduled to begin a required three-week Airborne School training prior to the Ranger Indoctrination Program. And miracle upon miracle, his two-month relationship with Amanda Carter survived his relocation to Fort Benning. He'd met Mandy in a peer-tutoring program, designed for students struggling with their foreign language requirement, when they'd both been assigned the same student by mistake. They struck up a conversation while waiting for the proctor to straighten out the mishap. Mandy, working towards a Romance Languages degree, had been impressed with his foreign language skills. By the time they both got the correct student, he'd gotten her phone number and a date. She relocated to Georgia after getting her Masters degree and soon acquired a civilian position at Fort Benning teaching soldiers French and Spanish._

(To be Continued)


	4. Chapter 3, Part 2

**Note:** Please see Chapter 3, Part 1 for story Sources, Credits, Disclaimers, and Caveat.

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Chapter 3, Part 2: _Mars in Retrograde Motion_

David rubbed his face, scraping away the memories like cobwebs from a windowpane, and then looked into the mirror over the desk.

The man Tom Cronin and Pamela Landy believed him to be. He wondered how they could be so sure of exactly who that man was.

He leaned his weight on his hands and starred at his reflection, just as he had almost three and a half years before on a small fishing boat out at sea. Nearly all of his memory had returned, but he couldn't say with any certainty whether exposing Blackbriar had been motivated by _David Webb's_ moral compass or _Jason Bourne's_ survival instinct. It was still difficult to think of himself as one person instead of two; a man who'd committed appalling acts of violence before his memory loss, and a penitent man who tried to distance himself from each remembered act of violence. He would eventually have to face the fact that his sense of duality was merely a trick of the amnesia, and nothing more. It was a truth he couldn't escape. The crux of it all was that Captain Webb had been an assassin as well, first in charge of an Army Ranger Black Ops unit and then solo in the Green Berets.

The fundamental difference between David Webb and Jason Bourne was the cause and effect of their kills. Command had always briefed Captain Webb in detail prior to a mission. Before leading his team into a transport helicopter or before seeing the green light signaling his solo parachute drop zone he knew the target's history, current affiliations, the evaluated pros and cons related to the strike, and the calculated benefits and risks of the strike. He'd stood in hostile sectors and compounds after his Black Ops unit completed its sweep, making kills in the process, and watched the safe arrival of American troops. On occasion after a kill they'd rescued political prisoners, missionaries, and even other soldiers caught in the wrong place and held as hostages. The look in their eyes upon rescue validated his unit's brutal actions.

In the Special Forces his targets had been radical military dictators, megalomaniacs in control of nuclear weapons, and terrorists. Sometimes his missions involved Recon and sniper work, where he'd be alone in the field for two or three weeks at a time until the target was eliminated. Other times he'd slip into a compound like a deadly shadow, and a single bullet to the brain or a quick slice of a knife across a throat ended a threat. He could always sleep at night after these kills. He'd read the files and had followed the trail of atrocities, believing these men were a threat to the world, to Americans. He quickly gained a reputation as an elite _specialist_ on missions coded 'with extreme prejudice.' Trained to be invisible, he'd received praise and commendations in private back rooms from various men with stars upon their shoulders who had given long years of service to their country. They'd passed along accolades, warrior to warrior, which he'd received with—he was man enough to admit it—a certain amount of hubris. David Webb was truly the sum of the oaths he'd taken.

The Soldier's Creed, with the Warrior Ethos sandwiched between, emblazoned on a shield over the door to his R.O.T.C. dormitory in college:

I am an American Soldier.  
I am a Warrior and a member of a team. I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.

I will always place the mission first.  
I will never accept defeat.  
I will never quit.  
I will never leave a fallen comrade.

I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.  
I am an expert and I am a professional.  
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.  
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.  
I am an American Soldier.

The Army Ranger Creed:

**R**ecognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of my Ranger Regiment.

**A**cknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move farther, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.

**N**ever shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.

**G**allantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.

**E**nergetically will I meet the enemies of my Country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.

**R**eadily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.

And the Special Forces Creed:

I am an American Special Forces soldier. **A professional!**  
I will do all that my nation requires of me.  
I am a volunteer, knowing well the hazards of my profession.  
I serve with the memory of those who have gone before me: **Roger's Rangers, Francis Marion, Mosby's Rangers, the first Special Service Forces and Ranger Battalions of World War II, the Airborne Ranger Companies of Korea**.  
I pledge to uphold the honor and integrity **of all I am - in all I do**.

I am a professional soldier.  
I will teach and fight wherever my nation requires.  
I will strive always, to excel in every art and artifice of war.

I know that I will be called upon to perform tasks **in isolation, far from familiar faces and voices, with the help and guidance of my God**.  
I will keep my mind and body clean, alert and strong, **for this is my debt to those who depend upon me**.

I will not fail those with whom I serve.  
I will not bring shame upon myself or the forces.  
I will maintain myself, my arms, and my equipment **in an immaculate state as befits a Special Forces soldier**.

I will never surrender though I be the last.  
**If I am taken, I pray that I may have the strength to spit upon my enemy.  
My goal is to succeed in any mission - and live to succeed again**.  
I am a member of my nation's chosen soldiery.  
**God grant that I may not be found wanting, that I will not fail this sacred trust.**

"De Oppresso Liber"

David had adhered to a Warrior's code, but even Achilles had a fatal flaw. Hubris tarnished him; however, personal tragedy led him to Treadstone.

His Uncle David was killed on a training mission in 1993 when the helicopter transporting his team collided with another helicopter in mid-air. On June 5, 1995 David, now a first lieutenant called his parents to let them know he wouldn't be able to attend his youngest brother's high school graduation. By now his parents knew not to ask for explanations. Their son was an Army Ranger and wasn't at liberty to divulge information that might inadvertently connect him to a specific mission. His father had simply said "Well, we'll see you on your next visit, then. We love you, son. You be safe, now." And that was the last time he'd ever spoken to his father. The family drove up to Springfield for dinner the next day to celebrate Pete's graduation. David's sister, who was pregnant with her first child, and her husband, who was driving, were seated in the front of the van. His parents and three brothers were seated in the back of the van. They were heading down Interstate Route 65, just two miles north of Nixa, when the driver of a semi fell asleep at the wheel and his truck drifted over the centerline, hitting the van head on. There were no survivors. On July 17, 1996, David slipped a 2-carat diamond engagement ring onto Mandy's finger in New York City. They'd gotten engaged four months prior, but he'd wanted to wait and buy the ring in New York, and it had taken him that long to arrange a ten-day furlough from his Ranger unit. He waited until the day her flight was scheduled to leave to give her the ring. That evening after dinner he watched Mandy board TWA Flight 800 bound for Paris; where she was to attend a three-month training program. The plane exploded over the Long Island Sound shortly after take off. There were no survivors.

In the span of three years, David lost everyone he loved … his entire support system. He was no longer anyone's child, anyone's brother, anyone's nephew, or anyone's lover.

Mandy had been liked and respected at Fort Benning. Many of the soldiers she'd taught attended her memorial service, offering condolences to David's numb ears and then shaking his numb hand. He watched his commanding officer with dull, lifeless eyes as the Major suggested he take a medical leave of absence. The following month, David's Captain made the suggestion an order after a mission. He was restricted to the base for three months pending sessions with a military shrink and the doctor's evaluation. David lucked out in being assigned a psychiatrist who was also a former Green Beret. He didn't completely heal David, admitting only time would do that, but he mended him enough to return to active duty. One year later, he was promoted to Captain and given his own Black Ops unit. Shortly thereafter, with absolutely nothing left to lose he completed the Special Forces Qualification Course. And after applying for a Special Forces Assessment and Section review, he was accepted. His degree in Foreign Service and his proficiency with languages were huge assets, but it was his sniper skills that impressed them most. In 1999 one of the back room Generals told him about a C.I.A. Black on Black program called Treadstone, which had been created to help protect American lives. He thought David would be a perfect candidate and offered to make a referral for him.

As it turned out, the C.I.A. had had wood for Captain David J. Webb for a couple of years. And what a prize he was; a disarming Midwestern demeanor, fluent in multiple languages, culturally adept, a proven killer, and no pesky family ties to complicate matters. Only 5'10" and blessed with a boyish face, attractive rather than handsome, he could effectively alter his age up or down with a simple change of attire and attitude. His average height and build could fool suspicious eyes and bodyguards until it was far too late. He could be a perfect weapon—the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing living amongst the sheep.

When David walked into the training facility at 415 East 71st Street in May 1999 he was twenty-eight years old.

During his initial induction into Treadstone, David soon learned the goal was to strip away his moral compass while retaining what Dr. Albert Hirsch had coined his "disciplined, intrinsically honed martial skills," translation—the Special Forces assassin. Only after he signed the release form did Dr. Hirsch explained the fine print. They expected him to kill anyone—man, woman, or child—without question or any advance knowledge of identity, affiliation, and criminal record. Being the man he was, there was no way he could ever commit to that. He suspected Dr. Hirsch had known he wouldn't commit to it and had held back the fine print until after he'd signed, when it was too late to back out, for his own nefarious pleasure. They force-fed him drugs to enhance his senses and then introduced him to water boarding. Through the torture and sleep deprivation he realized they would either achieve their goal or kill him. A warrior to the core, David was willing to give up his life; but in the end Hirsch had played to his hubris, and the predator within seized the occasion and made the kill. At that moment his warrior aspect went deep and dormant, silent but sentient, while his predator aspect took control. He became who they wanted him to be, what they wanted him to be.

Jason Bourne was David Webb squared to the fourth power. He completed the grueling two-year Treadstone training program with grim resolve, following through on all the drills with his usual professional competence. He learned about electronic devices and computer hardware. He learned how to break into and out of buildings, and how to drive any kind of vehicle with wheels. He'd taken the mandatory medical courses as an Army Ranger and was certified as a Field Medic, but Treadstone taught him about lethal drugs and how best to apply pain rather than healing. He dutifully took the drugs to enhance his senses, though anyone who'd gone on a mission knew your body produced the same chemicals naturally when placed in a fight or flight situation.

He'd endured Ranger training and Special Forces training, but nothing compared to the physical training Treadstone required. The training was intense, exhausting, and painful and the sensory enhancing drugs made it worse. But along with intense pain came intense pleasure. Nameless, professional women provided rewards for the trainees; wet, hungry mouths and bodies willing to do whatever was asked. Sex was the sanctioned drug of choice for Treadstone trainees, as long as they were in good standing with the program. The constant adrenaline flow kept them all on edge and their libidos primed 24/7. Jason, however, never requested any women (David Webb had been a serial monogamist even before he fell in love with Amanda Carter. He was just wired that way). Sexual addiction was a weakness he wouldn't allow himself to fall into. It was just another means of control in a situation where he already had very little control over his life. Exercise dulled the need, but didn't sate it. Hirsch would let him go a month or two without release, but sooner or later they'd slip something in his food to knock him out, and he'd wake up to soft curves and skilled hands. Then and only then would he let go and give in to the need and take what was offered. He was, after all, still human.

Once Alex Conklin, an ex-Marine, was brought on board and he found out about the sensory enhancing drugs he told them to stop. But he was ignored until of one of the men in training with Jason suffered a psychotic episode. They killed him. Jason didn't know who the man was, and he didn't care. All he cared about was the training and pushing his body to the point of exhaustion. He pulled the trigger each time, never knowing whether or not the gun contained a live clip. His body stayed bruised and swollen the first six-months as his traditional military hand-to-hand fighting style was enhanced by a Pilipino martial arts method called Kali; a modernized term for the more traditional style, Eskrima, that emphasized stick, knife, and sword fighting. This fighting style, deceptively passive in engagement and much like Aikido in utilizing an opponent's momentum against them, was effectively lethal. It suited his height and compact frame perfectly. With Kali he learned to think outside the box and use ordinary mundane items as weapons. After eighteen months he was able to hold his own with the instructors. Three months later, he put one of them in the hospital on a respirator. At that point they declared his training complete. The first recruit in Treadstone, he would be the last recruit out of the training facility.

Conklin, however, still considered Bourne 'blooded,' but not tested. The next day he and Jason flew to Munich where they were met at the airport by Jarda, a fellow Treadstone agent. They drove to Jarda's home where Jason was given a tube containing a full syringe of a lethal drug, and a gun. After a quick lunch they climbed into Jarda's car and started the six-hour drive up to Berlin. During the drive, Conklin filled Jason in on his mission. Soon after they arrived in Berlin, Jarda was instructed to pull over and park across the street from the Hotel Brecker. Conklin primed his soldier for the mission, making sure Jason understood before he opened the car door that the mission was not a drill. When Jason returned to the car, Conklin declared his training officially over. And from that moment on, Jason Bourne killed indiscriminately, never knowing or really caring about the target's back-story. Then came a night when he stood on a yacht 30 miles off the coast of Marseilles, holding a gun against the head of a man with a child on his lap and other children nearby. The little girl raised her head and looked up into his face. Once he realized he'd have to kill the child as well, his warrior aspect re-emerged and broke the Treadstone conditioning. He was pulled from the water; cleansed of all knowledge, and cast, unwillingly solipsistic, into a dangerous world.

David frowned and turned away from the mirror, deciding further examination of his id, ego, and superego would have to wait until he'd copped a few zees. He felt like a line from that old Beatles 'Walrus' song his parents had liked … _"I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together."_

He needed to think about what he was going to say to Nicky. He secured his hotel room and then pulled a bottle of Tylenol from his black duffle, swallowing two of them along with half a bottle of water. He made his way across the room and crawled into bed, sliding his Sig Sauer beneath a pillow.

Nicky.

He saw Nicky for the first time at the New York Facility two days after he and Conklin got back from Germany. He'd been assigned Paris as a permanent base of operations and was in the process of working out his cover alias with Danny Zorn. A C.I.A. technical team from the London sub-station was busy setting up the new safe house in Paris, trying to have it ready within a month. Treadstone was providing him with 5 million dollars in seed money in different currencies from various countries in packs of 100 denominations (dollar, pound, lire, etc) for living and business expenses, and for use in facilitating his missions. They'd already issued him a platinum American Express card as well as a gold Visa and MasterCard. Any money he made from his cover alias would be his to keep. All that was left was to find him a suitable Paris Contact.

Danny Zorn had just hacked into Harvard's Student Enrollment system, adding Jason Bourne's name and an impressive G.P.A. to the graduating class of 1994 from Harvard's Business School when the phone rang. It was Conklin, asking him to go to Interview Room 'C' and observe the proceedings in the adjourning room. Jason sat in the small room for three hours, watching a parade of female agents as they sat in front of the two-way mirror and endured an interview with Conklin. He'd gotten bored after a while, but his posture and attitude changed the moment Nicky entered the room. To say he was interested was and understatement, if his body's reaction was any indication. After he'd witnessed her interview, a voice over the intercom said, "Okay, you can go now."

Conklin must have somehow known about his hard-on for Nicky, because he all but offered her up on a platter after telling Jason she'd been assigned as his personal contact in Paris. He knew then that he would never touch her, because Conklin seemed to want him to so badly. When he asked if he could see her classified file Conklin handed it over without hesitation. Suspicious, Jason questioned the uncharacteristic and obsequious surrender of information. Conklin's response was simple. Nicky was privy to Jason's file. She knew everything about him except his real name. It seemed only fair for Jason to know as much about her. That explanation didn't exactly ring true. The other man must have seen the doubt in Jason's eyes, because he'd gone on to say it was important for Jason to establish a bond of trust with his contact. He said an exchange of mutual information was a practical bonding element.

The CIA recruited Nicky during her senior year at Brown University, where she majored in Comparative Literature and minored in Computer Science. The psychology courses she'd taken to round out her Humanities requirement was icing. No slouch academically, Nicky was fluent in French, German, and Spanish before she graduated from the Dana Hall Prep School for Girls. She spent the summer before college abroad with two of her friends, a joint graduation present from their parents. The girls spent a month in Spain, a month in France, and a month in Germany. When Nicky started college she opted for Dutch to satisfy her language requirement. She'd applied to the U.S. Department of State in her senior year in college for consideration as an interpreter in the Diplomatic Corps. The State Department had flagged her application for CIA review when her proficiency in languages and computer skills were noted. Nicky entered a CIA training facility the summer after she graduation from Brown. One and a half years later, he watched Conklin interview her through a two-way mirror in New York City.

David turned on his back and sighed. He remembered everything about his life in Paris prior to his amnesia except for Nicky. His memory just seemed to flow around her like a rock in a stream. Frustrated, he reached over to the nightstand and punched a button on the radio. The song playing instantly jolted him. _… Ah, the heat is up, ladies, fellas, drop your cups …_ There was something familiar … _Tight hip-huggers, low for sho, shake a little somethin', on the floor … I need that, uh, to get me off, sweatin' til my clothes come off_ … David groaned, his hands twisting the sheet as pain shot through his head, followed by a blinding white light and images.

(To be Continued)


	5. Chapter 3, Part 3

**NOTE**: Please see Chapter 3, Part 1 for story Sources, Credits, Disclaimers, and Caveat.

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Chapter 3, Part 3: _Mars in Retrograde Motion_

**Paris – Saturday, 24 October, 2003**

_"Rowdy_

_Gonna get a little unruly, get it fired up in a hurry_

_Wanna get dirrty, it's about time that I came to start the_

_Party, sweat drippin' over my body_

_Dancin', gettin' just a little naughty_

_Wanna get dirrty, it's about time for my arrival"_

_**(The DJ's voice over the radio in French)** "Christina Aguilera is getting 'dirrty' and perhaps a little bit 'naughty' tonight at the Zenith Concert Hall in Villette Park, yes? If you did not get your ticket early, you're out of luck. Our own Marcel just called and said the concert sold out 30-minutes ago and people are now being turned away at the door. All of you unfortunate fans should head to La Casbah, where tonight the dance club is featuring songs by Christina."_

Jason Bourne reached over and switched off the radio. He didn't know if they had pre-paid tickets or not, so he decided to wait. _Concerts._ She was so competent in her job, sometimes he forgot she was only twenty-four. He'd long been in the habit of tracking Nicky down when he returned from a mission, just to see her, to know that she was all right. It was a quirky compulsion he couldn't shake and one she'd eventually accepted, understanding that her presence in Paris had become a fixture in his life. Expecting him back sometime today after he'd coded in, she'd left a message on his home answering machine saying she and 'the girls' had made a spur of the moment decision to attend a concert tonight at Le Zènith. So, here he was.

He let the car idle while he scrutinized the animated group of young people, some noticeably disappointed, as they scattered from Le Zènith concert hall. He was looking for one particular blonde … _there!_ He spotted Nicky and her two friends wading through a group of stragglers, making their way toward a rose-pink Fiat Punto parked near the left-side exit of the garage. He maneuvered his BMW through pockets of humanity until he reached the rear bumper of a car two spaces away from the Fiat. He waited patiently as the petite brunette backed out of the space, and then followed discretely as she eased the small car out the exit and down the drive between Citè de la Musique and the Grande Halle. Le Zènith was one of five modern entertainment venues housed at Parc de la Villette; a large park on the Right Bank in the 19th Arrondissement that had once contained slaughter houses and the bleating cries of animals. Now it offered the cries of human voices raised in song and adulation. Aside from a concert hall dedicated to classical music performances, Citè de la Musique also contained the Museum of Music and the French National Conservatory of Music; one of the finest music schools in Europe.

Jason loved Paris. Everything about the city was a living history lesson. The city had been divided into twenty districts or neighborhoods called Arrondissements around the year 1790. The districts were laid out in a clockwise spiral pattern, and no address or landmark location was ever given in Paris without stating the Arrondissement number. No one ever simply lived at an address, but rather on a spot _of a spot_ where some great event once happened or where a landmark or a famous person once stood. Many people lived or worked _at_ a particular place or in a particular Arrondissement or Quarter rather than on a street or an avenue. The Treadstone safe house was located at Place du Marchè Sainte Catherine in the 4th Arrondissement.

He lived near the Arc de Triomphe in the 8th Arrondissement. He fit in well there, as he'd been taught to do when he wasn't on a mission. His neighbors knew him only in passing, but well enough to exchange hallway pleasantries. When he caught their whispers he heard them admiring his expensive clothes and fully loaded BMW, often referring to him as the charming young American businessman. They didn't know that the fully loaded BMW 325ci Sports Coup with tinted glass they so admired had a reliable on-board navigation system, and the chic suits and clothes he wore facilitated his cover as a Financial Consultant. When they asked what it was he did exactly, he explained that he found wealthy people expensive toys, primarily yachts, for entertainment and investment purposes.

The Fiat turned right onto Avenue Jean-Jaurès and merged smoothly into traffic. Jason followed suit, tailing the Punto from two cars behind. He switched on the heat to combat the chill of the late October evening and then made a lane change with the Fiat. The adrenaline high he'd been on for the last three days, while he'd plotted and prepared for the kill he'd made in Ireland less than twenty hours ago, had ebbed enough for him to register such mundane things as 'cold' and 'heat' again. He sighed as his body adjusted to the downshift of energy, the beginning stage of leaving behind what Treadstone had dubbed the _activation and decompression phase_ and what he had dubbed, _the Zone_. The Zone was a heightened state of awareness where, in both his and Treadstone's estimation, the primitive or animal part of the brain took over and instinct reigned supreme. In this focused state the hunt, the prey, the kill, and survival became of paramount importance to the exclusion of everything else. Like Pavlovian dogs, Treadstone agents responded to each texted _On Alert_ code by slipping into the Zone. The unwelcomed side effect of all that adrenaline, at least for him, was an overactive libido. And people wondered why James Bond was so randy.

The ebb of adrenaline brought the desperate state of his libido to the fore (it had been three months since he'd last allowed himself relief with a woman), reminding him that this was _so_ not a good time to be trailing after Nicky.

He'd kept tabs on Nicolette Parsons from the day she arrived in Paris. He knew her cover alias was Corrine Deschamp, an American graduate student studying French Existentialist writers at the Universitè de Paris-Sorbonne in the Latin Quarter. He knew she'd made two friends there: a feisty little brunette named Yvette Dupont (the owner of the pink Fiat), and an exotic beauty of mixed race named Claudette Piedmont. He knew she had an apartment on a street with the charming name of Rue de la Chanson (Street of the Song, where many Sorbonne music students lived) on the Left Bank in the 5th Arrondissement across the Seine from Notre-Dame Cathedral. He knew she usually stayed at her apartment unless Treadstone business kept her late at the safe house. He knew when her brief affair with a rather puerile graduate student named Henri Laurent began, and when it ended. And he knew that he wanted her in a way he never thought possible again after … after Mandy.

His attraction to Nicky was visceral. He wanted things with her he had no right to expect or aspire to, not with the blood on his hands. He didn't just want to fuck her; he wanted to mate with her. He'd analyzed the _why_ of Nicky ad nauseam. She was definitely _not_ the kind of woman he would have gone after in his former life. A cotillion debutante weaned on dance lessons and music lessons and Emily Post and the timeless advice that ladies always carried linen handkerchiefs, never called a boy, crossed their ankles—never their legs—and always sat with perfect posture. But he would have been attracted to the challenge of her. Being a bit of an ice princess with a cute little pout when she didn't get her way was a plus. And there was nothing sexier than a well-timed blush. It could be that his desire for her was an instinctual urge enhanced and exacerbated by the hunt and kill aspect of his new persona—the primitive part of him, the skilled and deadly predator Treadstone had tapped into. Or it could be a side effect of the drugs he took every day that made his headaches bearable. Or it could simply be that she'd become his type over the years.

It wasn't long after their bi-weekly meetings began that he realized she wasn't aware of her unofficial role as his fuck-toy. That knowledge actually made it harder for him to stay away from her, especially after he stopped his deliberate animosity and she relaxed around him. He discovered Nicky to be exactly what her file suggested, a bright young woman fortified with both book knowledge and common sense. When Conklin ordered the other Treadstone assassins to Paris to meet her, she exhibited a healthy wariness and respect for the predators in her midst. She knew as much about them as she knew about Jason, which was everything except for their real names. She knew what they'd done, what they were capable of doing. Yet not once did he sense any fear from her, though perhaps there would have been a glimmer of fear if she hadn't been blissfully unaware of the pissing contest going on around her. The dance between Alphas was a tricky two-step to learn. But Paris was Jason's territory, so he had the upper hand. Nicky would be meeting with each of them alone at some point, and it was important to establish early on that she was off limits--for pleasure or pain.

The men engaged in a silent conversation held with nothing more than looks and body language. Jason glanced over at Nicky, who was busy sending a flash message to Langley for Conklin, and then looked back at the other agents. His eyes and posture said _Mine_ as clearly as if he'd spoken the word. The Professor (who was too depressed to bother with Nicky) and Manheim (who preferred men) relaxed their posture and turned their attention away immediately. Jarda and Castel, however, returned his challenge. The energy in the room clicked up a notch. Jarda, more amused by it all than anything else, silently wondered how far Jason was willing to take the challenge. His smile disappeared at Jason's response. He cocked his head for a moment in consideration and then gave a slight nod and relaxed his posture, picking up a magazine and pretending to read. That left Castel, by far the most vicious of the group. Jason narrowed his eyes, letting Castel know he was willing to take it beyond hand-to-hand. Castel glared at him, so Jason raised an eyebrow, asking if he wanted to take it outside. The other agents perked up. None of them much liked Castel. Finally bowing to the obvious, Castel broke eye contact and slouched down in his chair. Conklin had watched it all with interest.

They had been together in Paris for about a year when Nicky asked him if they could conduct some of their meetings in Dutch. It was her weakest language and his file indicated he was fluent in it. That led to discussions of the other languages they had in common; which led to discussions of Shakespeare's 'king' series of plays; which led to discussions of history and literature. They steered clear of any discussions dealing with his role as an assassin, though neither of them ever forgot for a moment what he was or what he did. They were involved in a logistics meeting about an upcoming mission when Jason first noticed a heady cinnamon and musk scent coming from her. It was only when he returned from the mission and checked in with her while still in the Zone that he realized the scent for what it was—desire. Nicky's body was throwing off scent signals, letting him know she'd be receptive to his advances. The ironic twist was, once he realized the attraction was mutual, he grew cold and distant. He could pine away for her, for something he knew he could never touch, could never have. But what psychological defect could make her want a monster like him?

He was cold and aloof at their next meeting, rebuffing her efforts to draw him into conversation. And so it went for two months, until just before he left for his annual physical at Langley. He hadn't called to say goodbye; she knew he was leaving and how long he'd be in Virginia. So he was annoyed and surprised to find her waiting for him in front of his building. He walked past her and opened the door to his taxi. He threw his duffle onto the back seat and was halfway in the door when she called his name. Something in her voice made him turn around. He studied her carefully, and frowned in concern. She was pale ... so pale. He walked over to her and asked, "What do you want?" She held out a book and said, "It's a long flight. I thought you might like something to read." He looked at the book and read the title without taking it, _Shögun_ by James Clavell. He looked up at her. "Please read it," she pleaded. He took the book and slipped it in his jacket pocket, then turned and got into the taxi without a backward glance. He finished the book before the plane touched down in Virginia. He got it. He understood how Nicky viewed him, how she could be attracted to him. She saw him as a samurai, the warrior he had been in his former life. They were, both of them, vassals to the same lord—the C.I.A. She would perform her job, no matter what, just as he would.

When he returned home to Paris he surprised her outside of her apartment building. She invited him upstairs for coffee. He gave her a slow smile and shook his head _No_. She lowered her eyes with a slight pout, and then nodded. They both knew what would happen if he accepted her invitation, so they went for a walk instead. He told her why Conklin had stationed her in Paris and gauged her reaction. Fleeting emotions crossed her flushed face, flared in her eyes, shock and anger prominent among them. He was relieved to know his original assessment had been correct, that she wasn't aware of her unofficial role. Then she raised her eyes to his and asked the inevitable question, "If it's okay with Conklin, then why can't we?" He explained why. He told her that once Conklin realized it wasn't just sex with them, he'd use her as a pawn, a constant threat over Jason's head. And he could never allow that to happen, because sometimes pawns—especially cherished ones—were sacrificed in order to achieve a purpose. Having read _Shögun_, she understood his meaning. Their lord was relentlessly cruel and vigilant; and they were merely vassals.

A horn brought him back from his reverie just in time to see the Fiat turn onto rue de la Forge-Royale in the 11th Arrondissement. A car pulled out of a spot in front of La Casbah and the Punto zipped in just ahead of another car coming from the opposite direction. Jason drove past the Fiat and parked around the corner. La Casbah was actually a dance club with an excellent restaurant on the second level. He'd once eaten dinner in the restaurant with a married couple, potential clients. The restaurant was an interesting blend of Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, and North African décor and amenities, and the cuisine was much the same. The dinner he'd suggested, and his guests had enjoyed, was a traditional Moroccan Tajine dish called Mqualli—lemon chicken and vegetables cooked and served in a large clay pot and seasoned with cinnamon, saffron, ginger, garlic, cumin and peppers. Jason had dished out their meal and encouraged his guests to tear off chucks of the accompanying flat bread before pouring each of them a glass of Vin Gris. He'd selected Umm Ali, an Egyptian bread pudding served with a choice of whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for dessert. They'd hired him on the spot.

The three young women had already gained entrance to the dance club past the bouncers at the door when Jason rounded the corner. He would usually shy away from such close scrutiny, especially just after a mission, but tonight he'd shed his dark mantle of clothes in favor of fashionably faded jeans, a dark-gray sweater, and a brown leather jacket. The bouncers, trained to spot potential troublemakers by demeanor, waved him inside with hardly a glance. The interior of the bar was as culturally detailed as the restaurant. Large orange, brown, and violet pillows were everywhere on the floor and against the muted, mosaic walls between tables surrounding an immense area of lighted squares where a number of people were dancing. He slipped into a corner at the bar next to a group of noisy American tourists.

Jason watched Nicky with greedy eyes as she and her friends moved to the dance floor. Her blond hair, grown from the short cut she'd worn in New York to a couple of inches past her shoulders, was loose tonight rather than confined in its usual braid or French roll, and it had more of a wave to it. It was her outfit, however, that really captured his attention. He hadn't noticed how she was dressed before as she'd been bundled against the chill and light mist. She was dressed in tight, hip-hugging jeans with a narrow black leather belt and a black, nearly sheer sleeveless top cut to her breastbone. The form fitting garment was stitched closed to about an inch past the swell of her breasts, then spread wide in an inverted 'V', showcasing her toned abdomen, and ended about three inches above her jeans. She looked incredibly fuckable. She and her friends, who were, to greater and lesser degrees, similarly dressed, began to move to the pounding beat of the music. It was a moment before he recognized it as the same song he'd heard earlier on his car radio.

His eyes were riveted on Nicky as her body moved and her hips gyrated to the song's rhythmic beat. He'd never seen her look so alive, so vibrant. Near the end of the song a man came up behind Nicky and put his arm around her waist, dancing close behind her. She effectively elbowed him, hard, in the stomach and then turned her head and looked over at the corner where Jason was seated. _Damn_. She knew he was there. Well, of course she did. She'd left him a message letting him know exactly where to find her. This was all for his benefit. Dangerous, so dangerous for her to entice him with such a provocative mating dance when his libido was at a high peak and his resistance was low. He narrowed his eyes. If he didn't have such a raging hard-on, he'd get up and walk out. Instead he turned and ordered a cold bottle of water when he caught the bartender's attention.

_**(The DJ's voice in French over the microphone)** "All right, ladies … two of our resident belly dancers from the restaurant are with us tonight. They're impressed by the moves they just witnessed from the ladies on the dance floor and have offered to judge a belly-dancing contest here tonight! So, gentlemen, please leave the floor. All ladies who want to compete should please come to the dance floor. Come on, ladies. It's too late for shyness after what we have just witnessed! Adelaide has some … well, they look like baby Sari's to me. What are those, my darling? They're what? Oh, shawls. Yes, of course. Adelaide has some silk shawls for the ladies to tie around their waists. We'll give you a few more minutes and then we'll play one of our favorite songs here at the Casbah. "Marco Polo" by Loreena McKennitt." _

Squeals and titters, complimented by cat calls from the men, filled the room as ladies scampered off and a brave few scampered onto the dance floor. Yvette giggled and rushed from the floor, but Claudette and Nicky boldly walked over to Adelaide and selected shawls. Nicky chose a sky blue shawl while Claudette's choice was jade green. They quickly tied the shawls around their waists and then tucked the edges into their jeans. Nicky walked to the corner of the dance floor facing Jason and waited for the music to begin. It was obvious from the first beat of music that Nicky and Claudette had taken a class in belly dancing. While the other women stood still and shook their hips from side to side, Claudette, Nicky, and a few others embraced the music with their entire bodies, their arms and hips moving gracefully in concert as they flowed, twirled, and used their abdominal muscles to create a beautiful dance. Nicky eyes, dark and sultry, found Jason's face throughout her dance. When the music stopped, Jason found it hard to breathe.

Claudette won the contest, and Nicky was runner up. They squealed and hugged each other and then waited for the DJ to announce their prizes. Claudette won a bottle of wine and a coupon for a free dinner for four at the Casbah restaurant, and Nicky won a coupon for a free dinner for two at the Casbah. They both got to keep the shawls as well.

Nicky gathered her things and said something to Claudette and Yvette, pointing toward Jason. The two women smiled and waved at him. He'd met them both before. Nicky had introduced him as a family friend who'd gone to school with her older brother. He returned their wave and watched as the three women kissed each other once on each cheek—a formality the French called _faire la bise_. Then Nicky turned and walked toward him carrying her coat and purse, while Claudette and Yvette returned to the dance floor.

Her smile faltered a bit as she neared him once she realized how pissed he was, but she didn't stop until she stood beside him. His body was still facing the dance floor, so she was able to move her right thigh between his legs before he could stop her. To anyone watching the two of them, it would appear as if she was simply waiting for a drink from the bartender. He saw her eyes widen slightly when her thigh encountered his erection. He couldn't hear the hitch in her breathing over the music, but he saw her mouth open and her eyes dilate.

He leaned close to her and snapped. "Whatdaya think you're doing?" Without thinking, his hand went to her hip, his thumb caressing the smooth skin of her abdomen. He could see her nipples through the sheer material of her shirt. It took all of his will power not to cup her breasts.

She blinked at him and then smiled, her eyes full of mischief. She answered him in flawless French. "I'm sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else, Monsieur. My name isn't Nicky … it's Nicole."

He _did_ move her then, and turned his body towards the bar to prevent an encore. "Nicole, eh?"

"Yes. And you, Monsieur, what is your name?"

"Nicky—?"

"No. Nicole, please. In this dream, my name is Nicole."

"This dream?" He asked, switching to French as well.

"Yes, something only to be experienced tonight and then forgotten in the morning."

He stared at her.

"It is but a dream, Monsieur. Too soon forgotten."

"Ah, but some dreams are harder to forget, my dear. Sometimes it is simply best to avoid such dreams altogether, when one can … when one has a choice in the matter."

"A bird will spread her wings and fly from the nest, Monsieur. It is Nature, and nothing can stop it from occurring. There is little choice in the matter."

"A bird who isn't careful will have her wings clipped. There are Hawks in the air, my dear. Hawks who prey on little birds with great delight."

"A fledgling can either wait in the nest to become prey or take to the sky and strengthen her wings. Some dreams can bolster strength and aid growth, Monsieur."

Jason ran his hand through her hair and then cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes. "Danger lurks in this dream of yours, Mademoiselle. A gentleman would be remiss in not pointing this out to you."

"A true gentleman would risk much to make a lady's dream come true."

Jason hesitated … desire warring with reason.

"It is only a dream, Monsieur. Soon forgotten in the morning light."

"This dream of yours will end before the first light hits the sky or there will be no dream at all," he said sternly. He melted a bit inside from her radiant smile.

"Yes, of course, exactly as you say," she promised earnestly.

"Meet me out front in five-minutes," he said, switching back to English.

Jason made his way through the crowd to the entrance as quickly as possible. He said good night to the bodyguards at the door, who would remember, if asked, that he left the club alone. He walked briskly around the corner and clicked on the car's lights and started the engine with the key-palm sensor. If a bomb had been attached to the car, the explosion would have knocked him several feet away, but he would have survived.

Nicky was standing outside in front of the club by the time he maneuvered the car around the corner. He stopped a good ten feet away from her so the bodyguards wouldn't see who was driving the car when she opened the door. The tinted glass would otherwise prevent them from seeing inside. He locked her in as soon as she closed the door.

"Here, put this on." He waited for her to fasten her seat-beat and then handed her a black silk sleeping mask. She stared at it for a moment and then looked up at him. "Either put on the mask," he said, "or this dream ends now."

She looked at him a moment longer and then donned the mask and settled back in her seat. "Were you surprised to find me at the concert?"

"No," he said as he started the car forward. "I wasn't familiar with the singer, but I picked up a copy of the CD after I listened to your message. If her songs are any indication, she's a young woman exploring her independence and sexuality." He reached over and caressed her thigh. "It seems you're in the same place in your life … Nicole."

"I'm no trembling little bunny, you know. I've had relationships."

"How many?"

"W—What?" she asked in surprise.

"How many relationships have you had?" he asked. "I mean, aside from a sticky fumble or two in Prep school, probably six or eight 'real' events in college—most likely with the same guy—and your four-month fling with Henri Laurent." He looked over and noticed the blush on her face.

"Okay," she said, with that little pout he loved so much. "I don't have a lot of experience, but I know what goes where."

"It's not your lack of experience I'm talking about. It's the 'quality' of the experience you've had."

She was quiet for a few moments. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.

"I mean the boys and immature men you've been with. You're settling."

"Excuse me?" she said with a bite of anger in her voice. "Well, you're eight years older than me and we're about to have quality sex … won't that count?"

"I'm nine years older than you, and no, it won't count because tonight is just a dream and won't exist tomorrow. Right?"

"Right."

They rode in silence for a while. Then she reached over to touch his thigh. Her hand landed in his lap instead, fondling his prominent erection. "Whoa! Do you need a separate passport for this thing?" she asked. "I thought I was imagining things at the club."

"It depends on what port I'm in at the time," he said with a smile. He looked over at her when she failed to respond and noticed her deflated posture.

"So, any port in storm, huh?" she asked in a guarded voice.

He moved his right hand beneath the fall of her hair and massaged the nape of her neck. He felt her shiver at his touch. "Nope. I've always been a safe-harbor kind of guy. Shallow water can be difficult to navigate through. I like natural bays with lots of depth; the deeper the better."

She giggled and said, "With that thing, I can understand why." But he could tell by the sudden color on her cheeks that she was pleased with the compliment.

He glided the car to a smooth stop along side the Seine. "We're here," he said, switching off the engine. He came around to her side and helped her out and then guided her down a short flight of steps and across a slated plank to a large houseboat.

"Are we on the water?"

"Yeah." He was relieved to hear only the slightest hint of a quaver in her voice. He paused in front of the door and entered a complex series of codes on a keypad and then ushered her inside. "Stay here a second," he whispered in her ear. "And keep the mask on." He left her in the foyer and walked the perimeter of the small converted barge looking for any anomaly, no matter how small. Finding all the port windows covered and locked and his security measures in tact, he removed his jacket and switched on lights at strategic spots in the living room and master bedroom. Satisfied with the ambiance created by the muted lighting, he returned to Nicky and removed her coat and then the mask.

He watched her blink and take in her surroundings. "This is beautiful," she said. "Whose is it?"

"It belongs to John Michael Kane." He pulled off his sweater and folded it into a perfect square without looking and tossed it on the couch. He wore a black wife beater underneath. "But I don't think he's gonna be using it tonight."

He walked up behind her and folded his arms around her waist. He inhaled her scent, relishing the cinnamon-musk smell, now that he could touch it and taste it. They swayed together, her head back against his shoulder, her hands leaving warm trails along his skin. He never thought he'd feel it again; the positive-charged, electric heat generated between two people when physical chemistry was enhanced by mutual affection.

"You're trembling," she said.

"It's been a while," he said, his breathing harsh, his nose buried in her hair. He moved his hands along her abdomen and cupped her breasts through her shirt. Then he latched his mouth onto a spot next to her left ear, working his way down to her shoulder blade. Her knees buckled. He braced his legs and shifted beneath her, supporting her weight with his. He decided it was time to move things into the bedroom.

It took them a while to reach the bedroom. They touched, kissed and fondled each other the entire way. Finally they stood skin to skin, with the proof of Jason's arousal between them. He wanted to nail her to the mattress so desperately. "Tell me what you want," he said instead, digging down deep within for restraint. But if she kept moving against him like that …

She pulled away from him in surprise. A small frown creased her brow above her flushed face. "I thought … some men seem threatened when a woman takes control in the bedroom."

"Some men are idiots," he said, earning him another delightful blush and a giggle. Then he lost all interest in blushes and giggles as he ravished her mouth, raking his tongue against her soft pallet before enjoying an electric friction with her tongue. He sucked gently on her lips and then pulled away, breathing hard. He leaned his forehead against hers and rasped "This is your dream, baby. Tell me what you what."

He was surprised to see intense color bloom on her cheeks. She hid her face against his shoulder and shook her head. "I can't," she murmured against his chest, her breath creating pockets of warmth on his skin.

"Let's make a new rule. In this dream, Nicole can say whatever she wants without feeling embarrassed."

She looked at him and bit her lip, then said in a rush of words. "What I want, well, nobody's really ever done it before … well they _have, _but I don't think they did it right, because I didn't feel anything … well, yeah, I-I felt_ something,_ but certainly not anything worth screaming about … I mean, Claudette and Yvette talk about screaming, and screaming when somebody doesn't it to them, but I've never … I —"

Jason kissed her to stop her rambling. "Come on, you can tell me. Anything you want, whatever you need. Okay?" He leaned downed and kissed her neck, bringing delightful moans and mewing sounds from her.

When he raised his head, she whispered it in his ear.

He looked at her for a moment with smiling eyes, and then he made her scream.

Later … he leaned above her, resting his weight on his elbows. She reached up with her mouth and sucked a drop of sweat from his chin. They kissed for a few minutes or an eternity, and then he looked deep in her eyes and said, "It's been a long, long time since I've been so completely satisfied." She blushed, but her face was radiant from the pleasure his words gave her. He kissed her again and moved his cheek along her face until his mouth was next to her ear. "Sweet, Nicole," he whispered. And then he pressed a spot on her right temple and sent her to sleep.

An hour later he put her in her own bed and pulled the covers up to her chin after removing her clothes. He ran his hand along her cheek, then he leaned down and kissed her forehead, wanting nothing more than to pull off his own clothes and climb in bed with her. But that would never happen. He would never wake up in the morning with his arms wrapped around her, but he'd always hold the memory of this night deep in his heart. He left the apartment quietly, closing the door on her dream.

* * *

David sat up in bed and threw back the covers with a harsh inhale of breath and a pounding heart. He was covered in sweat, and the front of his boxers were soaked with something heavier and stickier than sweat; something he hadn't experienced since he was fifteen-years-old. Then the images of the flashback hit him full-force.

He reached over and grabbed his cell phone from the night stand with a trembling hand. He hit the speed dial button, then waited five rings before a sleepy voice said, "Tom Cronin."

David wiped the sweat from his face. "I remember. I remember Paris."

(To be Continued)


	6. Twin Moons

**Disclaimers**: All characters and images associated with _The Bourne Identity_, _The Bourne Supremacy,_ and _The Bourne Ultimatum_ belong to Universal Pictures, Doug Lyman, Paul Greengrass, and the Ludlum estate. The use of these characters is for fun, not profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. No harm is intended.

**Caveat**: This story was not beta'ed, all mistakes are mine (I'll clean them up as I find them). This story is dedicated to Frust-Sheep for her encouragement of my 'pregnant Nicky' plot bunny, and to Robin, for her constant and kind encouragement. :)

**When Mars and Venus Collide**

Chapter 4, Part 1: _Twin Moons_

David shucked off his damp boxers and stepped inside the shower stall. He braced his hands against the pink tile and bowed his head beneath the showerhead, registering the flow of warm water over his body. Vivid images of Nicky and their night in Paris flowed through his mind in a cascade—a sensory waterfall that threatened to drown him in emotion. Shifting his weight away from the wall, he surrendered to the images while his hands moved with practiced ease, shampooing his hair and then working soap against washcloth against body.

Through the whirl of images, his mind, always on alert, registered the latest trend of hotels in providing botanical and aromatherapy toiletries for their guests. The soothing scents of eucalyptus and spearmint surrounded him in fragrant steam as he stood beneath the showerhead and rinsed lather and soap down the drain. By the time he stepped out of the shower onto the bath mat and wrapped a towel around his waist, the images and memory of Nicky had settled in his mind with brilliant clarity.

David padded over to the sink and wiped fog from the mirror. He sagged against the porcelain and choked back tears as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass. After three years of excruciating disconnection, all of his memories had finally clicked back into place. The realization was overwhelming. He pushed away from the sink, smoothed his hands back along his wet hair, and closed his eyes in blessed relief. Then he opened them in concern. The release of one anxiety brought another one to the fore.

_Nicky_

He rubbed his face, removing any hint of tears, and then reached into his shaving kit for his razor. He glanced over at the watch he'd tossed on top of a folded towel while he lathered his face with shaving cream. It was 3:30 am. The Cronin's had a 6:30 am flight. He'd planned on waiting until after Tom's family left for the airport before showing up at the hotel. But he remembered Paris now, and everything had changed.

David thought about Nicky as he shaved his face and neck with quick strokes. He wondered what had gone through her mind when he'd showed up that night at the safe house. Surely some part of him had recognized her, because he'd paused and stared. He'd taken in her appearance, gauged her skill potential and quickly dismissed her as a physical threat.

She was terrified at first; probably thinking he'd suffered some kind of psychotic break after the Wombosi incident. But then her fear segued into something else. She was _relieved_ to see him. That caught his attention, made him pause. He'd given her an extra look before turning his full attention to Conklin. Later he'd looked at her again, with Conklin unconscious on the floor and a threat on the other side of the door, noting the look in her eyes and her deep inhalation of breath.

He saw her again, three years later in Berlin.

Of course they brought Nicky with them, and of course she'd helped them all she could, to find him … to kill him. It was her duty to help them and he wouldn't have expected anything less from her. But she'd also been all that was left of Treadstone, all that he could connect to the agent in India and Marie's death. From the moment he spied her through the rifle's scope, she became the focus of his anger. He knew Landy would send her, knew they'd give in to his demand if he asked, do anything to get him.

David closed his eyes and griped the edge of the sink. He could still hear the safety release … see the gun against her head … feel his finger easing the trigger back with steady pressure. If not for the pleading voice and image of Madame Neski flooding his mind with guilt, Nicky would be dead.

But he couldn't think of that now. He rinsed his razor in the sink and used the hand towel around his neck to wipe away residual shaving cream. Nicky wasn't dead, and she needed him.

_Sweet Nicole …_

He'd whispered those words to her in Tangier without knowing why, unaware of their meaning. He could still feel her lifting his weight, just enough to search his eyes in the mirror. He recalled his puzzlement at the hopeful light in her eyes and how it had died, replaced with sadness. She'd turned then, breaking the spell, thrusting them back into the real-time of haste and danger. At the time, his body was all that he could give; the only comfort he could extend to her, because Marie had the rest of him.

He dried his hair with another hand towel and moved into the other room to dress and pack, wondering if Nicky would ever forgive him … wondering how he could ever have forgotten her … wondering how to explain his love for Marie; not the same as what he felt for Nicky, but nonetheless real.

He was so consumed with thoughts of Nicky that he blinked in surprise to find himself fully dressed with his black duffle slung over his right shoulder. He started to drop his bag on the over-stuffed easy chair by the window and wipe down the room. But then he remembered his temporary reprieve from the CIA. He hit the light switch before the door clicked shut behind him. He took the stairs down to the small front lobby and dropped his key off at the desk. The sleepy desk clerk barely glanced at him when he handed David his receipt and thanked him for his stay. He heard the man snoring before he made it to the front door.

The two-mile walk to the Four Points Sheraton Hotel was uneventful at 4 am, save for a lone mugger who shadowed him for the first half-mile. His shadow left him once he turned right onto Julio Boulevard, signaling the boundary between the low rent part of the city and the tourist district. He walked for another mile and a half and then turned right onto Ejido Boulevard, bypassing several large resort hotels until he stood in front of the Sheraton and was greeted by the Doorman.

Family-friendly four star resort hotels were the rage of the new millennium, and hotel chains were reaping the benefits. The spacious lobby of the Four Points Sheraton was an interesting mix of palm trees, sepia glass, huge grey floor to ceiling pillars, black carpet and black, white, and red retro leather chairs and couches that would have been chic in an early Bond film. The ceiling was rich polished wood with round porthole lights. Despite the early hour the lobby contained about thirty jet-lagged people. They sat on couches reading books or sat around small tables in groups, talking quietly or playing cards, winding down before going upstairs to their rooms to get some sleep. Several small children kneeled before a low coffee table with a board game, while two other children worked a puzzle and one child colored in a book.

He was pleasantly surprised to see several Boutique stores down a wide corridor on the left-hand side of the lobby, about halfway between the door and the front desk. He walked into a Boutique called _Un Poco de Elegancia _with the English translation, _A Touch of Elegance_, written directly beneath it on the ornate sign above the door. The store contained everything from tastefully elegant silk, lace, and linen unmentionables for men and women, fresh cut flowers in a refrigerated case, perfume, makeup, clothes, gourmet food, and jewelry. His eyes lit with interest as he walked over to the jewelry case. Although Uruguay was the least stringently catholic country in South America, it was still way south of the equator. If Tom told the hotel staff that he and Nicky were married, it would be better for them to have some visual proof to that effect. A half-hour later he left the store with a large basket—prepared by the proprietor—filled with crackers, cheeses, chocolate, five bottles of Ginger Ale, and pink roses. It had been a while since he'd given anyone flowers, but he supposed that he ought to present some to the woman who was carrying his child. He'd also purchased a 14 carat gold wedding band set. He sat the basket down behind one of the grey pillars and slipped the larger gold ring onto his left-hand ring finger, and then walked up to the front desk.

There were no sleepy front desk clerks here. Even at this early hour he was greeted with a pleasant smile and a cheerful greeting.

"Buenos días, Señor! How may I help you?"

"Good morning," David replied, handing the desk clerk his passport. "I believe you have a reservation for me."

The clerk typed into the computer. "Sí, Señor Nielsen. Your wife arrived yesterday. Señor Cronin told us to expect you. Just one minute, please, while I activate your key card." He handed David a guest registration form to sign and then punched more keys and ran a card through a small black box connected to the computer. He inserted the key card inside a holder and wrote in a room number. He eyed the large basket. "Would you like someone to bring this up to the room for you?"

"No thank you. Have the children and Señora Cronin left for the airport?" He made sure to place his left hand on the counter as he signed the reservation form and accepted his key card.

"No, Señor. They have requested a bellhop for 5 am to help bring down the luggage." The clerk pointed to his right. "You can reach the Suite by taking any of those three elevators. Enjoy your stay, Señor."

"Thank you."

He adjusted his black bag and picked up the basket, and then he walked over to the bay of elevators across from the restaurant entrance. A couple with a sleepy child in tow got on the elevator with him and exited on the twelfth floor. He rode up to the twenty-fifth floor and stepped out onto plush tan carpet. He walked down the corridor, coming to a stop in front of a double-door suite.

David heard the distinctive click of a gun's safety release the moment he opened the door.

(To Be Continued)


End file.
